How’s Skylar?
I rubbed my forehead. Good. She spent the night at home, studying. Alone.
Excellent. She’ll be out late tonight. I set her up on a date.
Stiffening, I rubbed my jaw and forced myself to take a second before I replied: A date? Do we think that’s wise right now, sir?
It’ll be fine. He’s a cop.
Of fucking course he was. Tate was always looking for cops to add to his payroll. And a cop, even if he was a dirty one, would be perfectly adept at keeping her safe. I had no reason to object, and yet I did. Very much so.
Excellent. Does she know?
Why the hell do you care?
I let my neck rest on the back of my chair, staring up at the white tile ceilings with fluorescent lights, not answering. Maybe this dirty cop would be the guy to make Sky forget about me. Maybe she’d like him, and maybe they’d kiss after the date, and she’d like it this time. Maybe she’d be happy with the asshole, like Lucas was with Heidi. Maybe . . .
Maybe I’d shut the hell up.
CHAPTER 12
SKYLAR
After my last class ended at six, I spent a few hours at the library studying with Marco, until the words blurred and I couldn’t focus anymore. Tate had called and tried to spring a last-minute date on me, but for once I’d had a legitimate reason to say no. I couldn’t afford to lose studying time to go on a date with some guy I wouldn’t like anyway.
Not when Scotty Donahue was one door over.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I said, smiling at Marco.
“Sure thing,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “Where I grew up, a girl walking home alone is a welcome invitation for trouble.”
I slowed my steps. Marco had told me a bit about his past, and his time homeless on the streets. A kind bar owner had given him a place to stay and a job, and had helped him get into college. Unfortunately, she died in a horrible fire. Marco still talked about her like she was alive. “I lived there, too.”
“Kids of Steel Row,” he said, his jaw tight. “Not to be confused with the Sons of Steel Row.”
My mind immediately went to Scotty. “Right.”
“I hate them.” He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, his even darker eyes focused straight ahead on something only he could see. “They took her.”
I blinked. “I thought she died in a fire.”
“She did.” His dark olive skin flushed. “With him.”
“Who?”
He flexed his jaw. His black shirt and matching black basketball pants were as dark as his eyes. “Her boyfriend. He was a Son. Whoever attacked his place was after him, not her. She was just collateral damage.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my heart aching. And I was. It hurt, knowing that the Sons had taken something away from him, for more reasons than one. My gaze wondered to Scotty’s door.
He stopped at my apartment, not meeting my eyes. “I know.”
Reaching out, I hugged him close. We’d originally bonded over our mutual past in Steel Row, but, over time, it had turned into a true friendship. He was a good guy. It hurt to see him look so sad. So alone. I knew that feeling all too well. He wrapped his arms around me, hugging me close, and pulled back, giving me a smile. “See you tomorrow?”
I nodded. “You bet.”
With a wave, he walked off, his steps sure and steady. After he rounded the corner, I dug my keys out of my purse, but as I slid the key into the lock, I froze. I swore I could feel Scotty, standing just beyond the neighboring door. It was crazy, and I knew, logically speaking, you couldn’t feel someone through a door. And yet . . .
I totally did.
He was watching me.
Pulling my key out, I sidestepped to his door, lifting my fist to knock. Before I could do so, it swung open and he stood there, wearing a pair of jeans and an open shirt showing hard muscles and a whole lot of ink. He gave me a once-over, lingering on my chest. “Did you have a nice date?”
I cocked my head. “What makes you think I was on a date?”
For a second, he looked worried. His brow furrowed, and his nostrils flared slightly as he rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know. The dress, I guess. Answer the question.”
“I was studying with a friend.” I licked my lips, darting a quick glance at his face. “I didn’t go on a date. Tate asked me to, but . . .”
He frowned. “But . . . ?”
“He wasn’t you,” I said simply.
He gripped the door tight, then asked, “Want to go to a concert with me?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Right now?”
“Yeah, why not?” He buttoned up his top button before moving on to the next. “You’re already dressed.”
I hesitated, thinking of all the studying I still had to do before bed, but Scotty was standing there, with his bright green eyes, staring at me. It was like the beige walls of the hallway were closing in on me, and the only way out alive was with him. “Yes.”
“Great.” He finished buttoning his shirt, grabbed his dark brown leather jacket, shrugged it on, and caught my hand. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Three hours later, a woman stood on a stage in a big purple ball gown, holding a microphone with diamonds on it, singing so beautifully, it brought tears to my eyes. Her words were of loss, and pain, and moving on from something that had broken her—and I could feel the pain laced into those words with every syllable she sang. When Scotty had asked me to go to a concert with him, I’d expected some sort of punk group, or maybe a rock band that sang about fighting the government. But I’d gotten the Boston Pops and a Broadway star.
One whose voice was magical.
She held on to the last note of the song for an impossibly long time. I blinked rapidly, staring at her, convinced she was an angel. When she broke off the note perfectly, bent over, her hand on her chest, her face broken, the crowd cheered, clapping and shouting, some with tears running down their cheeks, some cool and calm but clearly impressed.
I stumbled to my feet, clapping, and Scotty stood, too.
The singer bowed, her brown hair falling on either side of her face, and blew kisses to the crowd. I turned to Scotty, about to say something about her amazing voice, but as he clapped, he stared at me with wonder. He looked at me as if I were the person who had done something amazing, rather than the woman on the stage.
My breath caught in my throat, and we locked gazes, staring at each other.
After a few moments of charged silence, he cleared his throat. “She’s good, huh?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, pushing my hair behind my ear. The lights turned on, and I grabbed my jacket. He took it out of my hands and draped it over my shoulders, his fingers touching my skin. “Thank you for inviting me.”
His lips tilted into a smile. We were the last ones in the row, so we waited for everyone else to clear out first. “How surprised were you when we pulled up here instead of some club?”
“Very,” I admitted, laughing. “I didn’t know you were a Broadway fan.”
He shrugged. “They said I was, in that auction.”
“With a whole lot of stuff that wasn’t true.”
“This was, though. My ma used to listen to Broadway musicals, and sing along as she cleaned. I guess it kind of stuck with me. I go to listen to them every once in a while, and it reminds me of her.” He ran his hand down his face. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not stupid at all,” I said, my voice thick. “My mom used to sing when she cleaned, too.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “Did your dad sing, too?”
“No. He never sang, or smiled, really.” I tucked my hair out of my face. “Not when I knew him, anyway.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I was ten, and we were leaving. I remember crying because Tate wasn’t c
oming, and he hugged me, and promised we would be together soon.” I lowered my lashes, hiding my eyes from him. “He, of course, was wrong. I didn’t see him again until I was sixteen, and Mom died.”
He reached out and ran his knuckles down my cheek, his eyes soft. “What happened then?”
“My father still refused to help me. According to him, I wasn’t his. He swore Mom cheated on him and I was the daughter of another man, and he never backed down from that stance. So as far as I’m concerned, he was never my father. I didn’t even have his last name—I changed it after he died, for Tate. He wanted us to match. But, anyway, Tate helped me get emancipated since there was no one to be my guardian and I didn’t want to end up in the system. He did his best to provide for me, since his father wouldn’t.” I watched the crowd around us file out. The room was mostly empty now. “He did what he had to do to make sure I was okay.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “What does that mean? What did he do?”
I hesitated, my heart picking up speed. He was watching me intently now. Almost as if . . . “Well, I mean . . . I guess he got a job, or something. He never told me, but I know he struggled to support me. As soon as he was able to, he got us a tiny little place outside of Steel Row, and he moved out of the mansion. When his father died . . . well, everything changed.”
He nodded, skimming his knuckles over my jaw before stepping back. “My brother was the same. He did what he had to do to keep me safe.”
“Do you know what he did?”
“Yes.” He grabbed my hand, scanning the crowd. “It’s thinned out. We can go now.”
We walked out of the concert hall in silence, and he held on to me the whole time. As we stepped into the cool night air, I shivered and moved closer to him, seeking his heat. He glanced down at me, and hesitantly put his arm over my shoulder. He did it awkwardly, as if he’d never done so before, and his hand settled firmly over my arm.
“Have you ever dated before?” I asked, pressing my mouth into a thin line. “Like, you know, had a real girlfriend?”
He tensed, his fingers tightening against my bicep. “No.”
“Never?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
I didn’t say anything.
After a while, he asked, “Have you? Had a real boyfriend, I mean?”
“No.” With a brother like Tate, dating wasn’t easy. I was always on guard, and always careful that someone didn’t use me to get to him.
“Why not?” he asked.
He’d asked me this before.
I’d avoided the answer. But now . . . “Tate is . . . different. Having a brother like him makes it difficult to date. He’s very . . . protective. And I don’t want to drag some poor unsuspecting guy into that, unless it’s for real. Unless I . . . I don’t know. Unless I love him, I guess.”
He watched me closely, his brow furrowed slightly. “How is Tate different?”
“He just is.”
When I didn’t say anything else, he stared straight ahead. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” I shrugged. “I’m not sure I really believe in it.”
“What?” His head snapped toward me. “Why not?”
“My mom loved my dad with all her heart, and look what it got her. She lost her son, her house, her lifestyle.” I lowered my head, staring at our feet as we walked. He wore brown leather boots. “I watched her fall apart, and up until the day she died, I’m pretty sure she still loved him. He didn’t even come to her funeral.”
He was silent for a while. “Maybe he didn’t love her like she loved him.”
“Maybe not.” I lifted a shoulder, playing with my purse strap. “That seems to be the case most of the time. One person always loves the other person more, and that person is the one who gets left behind. The one who gets hurt.”
“And you don’t want to get hurt,” he said slowly.
“Do you?”
He shook his head once. “No.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
He opened the door to his Escalade for me silently, watching as I slid inside and arranged my dress over my thighs. He closed it without another word before climbing into his seat, buckling up, and starting the engine. We drove home in silence, me watching Scotty, him watching the road. When we pulled up to the curb, he shut the car down and got out.
I opened my door, too, and he was there, waiting for me, offering a hand to help me down. I stared at it for a minute, because despite my words about not believing in love, and not wanting to get hurt . . . I had a feeling I was going to let him hurt me. And nothing I did would stop it, because he already had a hold on me I couldn’t shake.
He frowned, staring at his hand, then me. “Sky?”
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I placed my hand in his larger one and hopped down right in front of him. When he didn’t let go, I glanced up at him, and caught my breath. He was watching me like he was thinking the same thing I was. Like I could hurt him. “Thanks.”
He didn’t say anything.
Just led me inside.
When we reached the end of our hallway, I hesitated. He still hadn’t let me go. After a moment, he did, and unlocked his door. I watched him, heart racing. He pushed it open, stepped back, and asked, “Want to come in?”
I sucked in a deep breath, because I did. We stared at each other the whole time, and my heart raced faster and faster until I was sure it would burst. After I passed him, he came inside, too, and shut the door, locking it. I stood there, taking in the apartment. There was furniture scattered throughout it, and a big TV hung on the wall. There was something familiar about the place, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Nice.”
“Thanks. It’s not mine.” He dragged his hand through his hair, and let out an exaggerated breath. “What the hell are we doing, Sky?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Yeah. Me either.”
He watched me with a hunger I knew all too well. “I like spending time with you. I like being your friend. I don’t really have many of those, and certainly not ones that go to concerts like that with me. You make me . . . you make me happy. Something I haven’t been in a long time.”
His emphasis on the word friend was not missed, or misunderstood. It was a clear reminder that it was all we were, and all we would ever be. “I like being your friend, too. Tonight was nice. Can I ask you something?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “Sure.”
“Why did you join a gang?”
“Because it was the only thing I could think of. My brother was already a member, and my mom was gone, and it just . . .” He lifted a shoulder, not meeting my eyes. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“And then you got out.”
He rubbed his jaw, letting out a small, harsh laugh. “I didn’t want to make the city worse. I wanted to make it better. There’s so much crime and pain in Steel Row. I didn’t want to contribute to it anymore. I wanted to be . . . better. Better than my brother. Better than the gang. Just . . . better.”
I nodded. “Balance out the spectrum a little bit.”
“Yes.” He locked eyes with me. “You’re too good of a person to not believe in love. To not want it.”
I blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Relationships involve risk, and reward, and heartache. Not to mention the endless dates you have to go on to find someone you want to be with, where you repeatedly have to talk about your crappy childhood and your dead parents with some dude your brother asked out on a date for you.”
He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me. He was silent so long that we passed the awkward territory and went straight on a nonstop flight to the land of embarrassing.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Well, I should go study. I have to work at the shelter day care tomorrow morning, and then I have class—”
>
“Shelter day care?” he broke in, blinking. “What?”
“I volunteer there. It’s a shelter for abused women who are starting their lives over after escaping their abusive partners. I play with the babies while the moms go try to find jobs.” I forced a smile. “What can I say? It strikes a chord in me.”
He stared at me. “My dad might not actually be dead,” he said casually, like he was talking about the weather instead of himself. “I don’t know who he is, and even though I could probably try to find out, to see if he’s alive, I haven’t, because to me? He’s dead. And I want it to stay that way. I know people can change, and that they can be better, but even if he’s a goddamned saint now, he’ll always be the guy who walked away from us.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Was he telling me this because he thought I was making a passive-aggressive hint that I wanted to talk more, or because he did? I didn’t do passive-aggressive. I preferred everything out in the open, for all to see. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He locked eyes with me, his gaze completely vulnerable, taking me even more off guard with his off-the-cuff admission. “But Lucas was more of a father to me than my real father could ever be, and, basically, I’m saying I know how you feel about Tate.”
I bit my lip. “When I turned sixteen, Tate threw me a sweet sixteen. I have no idea where he got the money from, but he got me a dress, and a tiara, and invited my friends . . .” I turned away. “I felt like a princess that day. Because of him.”
Scotty stepped closer, his expression warm with compassion and understanding—but no pity. Thank God. If he’d pitied me, I would have walked right out of the room. “I had no idea you went through all that horrible stuff with your dad. The guilt over Lucas, over what he had to do, kills me.”
My throat ached, and I took a deep breath. His apartment smelled like aftershave and vanilla. It was comforting. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”
Neither one of us spoke. Nervously, I tucked my hair behind my ear. My fingers trembled, and I hid them behind my back to hide it from him. We were crossing new ground here. I wasn’t sure what it was, or what it meant, but we were. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to him. We were both so alike.
Dare to Lie Page 12
